


Useless

by gracethescribbler



Series: Winged Clones [2]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars: Clone Wars (2003) - All Media Types, Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Torture, Plo is Best Dad, Wingfic, Wings, Wolffe loses his eye, winged clones, wolfpack
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-16
Updated: 2019-10-16
Packaged: 2020-12-17 09:18:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,824
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21051989
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gracethescribbler/pseuds/gracethescribbler
Summary: Wolffe struggles with the loss of an eye and injury to his wings, but his General's there to support him.





	Useless

**Author's Note:**

> I don't know what this is but I wanted to write it so I did. I'm still just playing in the sandbox with this AU, I'm looking for more ideas/prompts/suggestions if anyone has 'em.
> 
> come message me on tumblr about this au at @gracethescribbler

Ventress tilted Wolffe's chin back and forth in her hand, casually, and in Wolffe's blurry vision her smile looked jagged and full of broken teeth. "I think that's better, don't you? Now please, let's revisit the topic at hand. Kamino's defenses, trooper, what are they lately?"

Wolffe couldn't think much beyond pain - it felt like half his face was burning, and he couldn't see right, could hardly see at all through the involuntary tears and sweat and shaking. He still managed to grit out a growled, “Not a way in hell I’m telling you.”

“Oh no?” Ventress leered closer and Wolffe shut his good eye, tight, readying himself for more pain - gods, it was already so much. She was quiet for a moment, though, and then he heard her saber igniting again and then there was… heat. Radiating, close to his left wing, and his eye snapped open again. “These don’t work, do they.”

Wolffe couldn’t stop himself from shaking his head a little,  _ please don’t, _ although he fought for stubbornness and fierce control even as he felt panic curling icy through his stomach. “Back off,” he snapped, and he  _ knew _ he sounded frightened, he couldn’t help it.

Ventress  _ laughed, _ snarly and cold and right in his ear, and then, fast and violent, white heat scorched into his wing and he felt it hit bone. He choked on a scream as the rest of his world turned  _ sharp, acrid, agonized,  _ and then it dimmed to nothing at all.

Wolffe woke up in a flash of panic, felt softness under his back and over his chest and tried to sit upright. Instead, he found himself halted by thick restraints on his wrists and legs. His wings weren’t restrained, and he tried to spread them out to gain purchase, but one felt heavy and weak, didn’t respond to him, and he recognized, all at once, the bulk of bandages over his white and grey feathers, and he shivered and stopped moving, refolded his wings against his back. Out of his other eye, still, the right, he could see  _ nothing. _ He thought he should be in pain, he knew- there had been so much before, and he still felt raw and sick and cold.

He looked around, swiveling his head to get the widest scope he could, and  _ finally _ he felt himself relax as he saw some of his brothers, his medic, Fate, and his General. He was safe.  _ Gods, _ he was safe.

As if sensing him, General Plo turned and looked at him, then started across the medbay, and Wolffe quickly looked away, back at his bandaged wing. Gods, his feathers… they must have been so damaged, so many of them were missing, and the bandaged cut appeared to extend almost twelve inches down his wing towards his primaries. He tucked his wings closer to him and closed his good eye so he could pretend he hadn’t lost the other.

“Commander, you’re awake now, I see,” said General Plo, his voice sounding like he was close, perhaps even sitting down, by Wolffe’s left side. There was a rasp of fasteners opening, and then Wolffe felt the restraints being unwrapped from his arms and legs. “We only had you restrained to be sure you didn’t hurt your wing when you woke up.”

Wolffe opened his eye and nodded, trying to read his General’s face, but as always it was a difficult task. The General’s hands were folded in front of him, and Wolffe carefully got his arms under him and sat up, stretching out his injured wing and running his fingers over the bandages to inspect them.

He, like so many of the 104th, couldn’t fly - the Kaminoans explained to him, when he was a cadet, that every so often they got a bad unit, one without all the necessary musculature to fly, the structure a little too off. That’s what they called it.

The only reason that hadn’t resulted in Wolffe’s termination or demotion to working sanitation on Kamino for the rest of his life was General Plo. He still didn’t know how the General knew about it, or why he’d decided to take such an interest in brothers who didn’t get to fly, but he had  _ specifically requested _ Wolffe for his Commander and had demanded that, as a relief battalion, he be assigned the flightless  _ vode, _ even ones who lost use of their wings in battle. Overtime, almost all of the 104th became comprised of brothers with broken, lost, or simply nonfunctional wings, which suited them well enough as they made do with flightpacks and spent a great deal of time piloting starfighters and transports. Wolffe had sworn, since the very first day of his command, that he wouldn’t let General Plo down. Not after his General had put such faith in all of them, had undoubtedly saved the lives of hundreds of  _ vode _ \- not after he had put faith in Wolffe himself. And somehow, Wolffe had stopped feeling like his wings were useless, even though they didn’t work the way his brothers’ did, even though he couldn’t fight like the rest of them did. The 104th did things their own way, and General Plo had never once seemed impatient with them. Had never once seemed impatient with  _ Wolffe. _

But Wolffe still found himself unable to look at his General as he finished his inspection of his wing, which had been of little use except to confirm that the saber blade had gone all the way through his wing and had damaged his ulna, if the pain was anything to go by. He reached up, felt at his face and found that there was a thick bandage over his right eye. Or, he supposed, where it should have been.

He almost wished General Plo would leave him alone.

"It's quite a lot, isn't it?" his General asked, quietly, in the infuriatingly calm way he had when things went wrong. At first, Wolffe had thought his serenity was because he didn't care, but now he understood that it was because Plo cared a great deal. Right now, that felt like a kick in the teeth.

“Yeah,” Wolffe said, irritated that his voice came out rough and quiet. He rubbed his nose with one hand and looked around the medbay again. “I didn’t tell her anything, General,” he says, firmly, without thinking about it. “She was asking about Kamino. But I didn’t-”

“I know.” General Plo interrupted him in the same steady voice. “I’m not worried about that, Wolffe.” He leaned forward a bit, resting his arms on his knees, hands still folded. “I am requesting that we get you a prosthetic, for your eye, and I’m told your wing should heal well enough.”

“Great,” said Wolffe. Sarcasm twisted the word, and he pressed his hands together and hunched his shoulders and wings, embarrassed with himself. “That’s- that’s good, sir,” he added, more genuinely.

He had spent so much time trying not to let Plo down, and here he was, unable to fly or fight or even see properly, now, and General Plo was still talking about helping him fix it. He rubbed at his face, shifted, and looked away, feeling an ashamed, burning kind of embarrassment that made it too hard to look at the General. He twisted his fingers together and once again thought that he would like to be able to hide, would like General Plo to stop looking at him.

“What’s wrong?” General Plo asked him, voice softening from the steadiness to warmth and quiet. Wolffe shook his head, cleared his throat. His good eye stung.

“Nothing, sir. Long couple days.”

“I know.” General Plo reached over and touched his shoulder, and Wolffe slumped, swallowing again against a lump in his throat. Plo sighed. “I’m sorry you ended up in that situation, Wolffe. I can’t help but feel somewhat responsible.”

“Not your fault, sir.” And it wasn’t. It was no one’s fault, just shit luck and too many mistakes. But Jedi didn’t believe in luck, so Wolffe had learned they seemed to like to blame themselves for everything. General Plo would have said he didn’t do that, but Wolffe knew better.

“Do you need anything?”

General Plo seemed as if he was trying to analyze what was wrong with Wolffe so he could repair it, and Wolffe was both grateful and wanted to tell him to stop - he was fine. “Sir,” he said, tiredly, a warning.  _ I don’t want to talk. I want to be functional like the rest of my brothers and I want you to get on with your day. _

“Commander,” Plo said, in the same tone, leaning closer, his hand still on Wolffe’s shoulder, but then he seemed to think better of what he was going to say, and sat back, folding his hands again, giving Wolffe his space. But he didn’t move, and instead stayed seated in his chair beside Wolffe’s bed.

That, it seemed, was what did it.

“Sir, all due respect, but you ought to go about your own duties,” Wolffe said, gruffly, the same hot embarrassment clogging his throat, and he knew he was seconds from tears. “I’m alright, no need to be concerned.” He felt as if he were trying to shoo his General away like the General were a bothersome shiny, but General Plo didn’t move.

The first tears escaped Wolffe’s eye and he swallowed hard and turned his head away, humiliated - he couldn’t look at his General anymore, and so it startled him when he felt the bunk dip a little and his General’s arms wrapped around his shoulders. Wolffe slumped, against Plo’s chest, and felt the Jedi sigh and hug him even tighter.

Wolffe should have been more embarrassed. He should have apologized or brushed off General Plo’s embrace or pulled himself together. Instead, he closed his eye and whispered, “I feel useless, sir.”

“I know,” Plo said, sounding- sounding  _ sad. _ Sympathetic. “I know, Wolffe.”

Wolffe rubbed his face, shaking his head - he expected General Plo to give him a Jedi speech about how it would get better, or how he would be fine. And then his Jedi didn’t. He just held Wolffe, quietly, and as Wolffe settled again, said quietly, “I’m proud of you.”

Wolffe didn’t know why that made him want to cry again, or why his chest began to ache. He cleared his throat and pulled back, prompting General Plo to let go of him and move back to his own chair. “Thank you, sir,” Wolffe said, quietly, wiping his face and shaking his head. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.” Plo shook his head slightly. “I understand.”

Somehow, Wolffe believed him. He glanced away, for a moment, then looked back and asked, “Would you- help me clean my feathers?” The question felt vulnerable, foolish almost, but Plo didn’t let him worry.

“Of course. Whatever you need.” The General smiled, genuinely, and Wolffe relaxed, finally, truly beginning to feel safe again.


End file.
